Love and Fried Chicken
by RogueGeek
Summary: Sometimes thoughts of love lead to thoughts of food, and vice-versa


(A random monolouge containing the thoughts of Adam 'Edge' Copeland.)  
  
  
  
Matthew Moore Hardy. The name rolls off my lips, sweet like fine wine. Or Twinkies. I'm not really sure which. I guess it could be as sweet as fine wine AND Twinkies. I mean, I like them both and preferably together. No, seriously, a late night binge is never complete without a big package of Twinkies to top it off. The golden sponge cake ... the delicious cream filling.  
  
... Wait, wasn't I talking about Matt? Yeah, yeah I was. Sorry, sometimes I have a short attention span, especially if I start talking about food. That reminds me, I'm hungry... I wonder if I have any Twinkies left? No! No Twinkies! Not until I finish talking about my beautiful Matt!  
  
Yes, he's beautiful. He's so beautiful that sometimes it makes me ache and I just want to curl up and die. Die from the overload of his sensuality. I could go on for hours about how his dark hair falls into his eyes, I could compose sonnet's to his lips or the way he moves like a cat inside the ring. Well, I could if I was actually able to write a decent piece of poetry. Poetry and I don't get along. I was never very good at it. That was the worst part of english class, the stupid poetry section. Especially when we had to come up with our own poems. Thankfully, I've nearly succsessfully blocked that from my memory, especially the horrible verse I wrote when I crammed every poetry stereotype I could think of into it. Man, I hated that class.  
  
Matt! I'm supposed to be talking about Matt! Now, as I was saying, Matt really is beautiful. He's simply the most gorgeous creature I've ever laid eyes upon. I've just got to get up the courage to tell him that. I mean, I'm sure he knows it. Women tell him that all the time. But I want to tell him. I want to tell him how I feel. I want him to know that I would gladly do anything he asked me to. And yes, I would even compose cheesy love poems for him, if he wanted me to. Without even knowing it, he has me wrapped around his little finger. Damn him.  
  
No, I can't damn him because I love him. I've love him as much as I love Twinkies and wine. If I could finish off a late night binge with Twinkes, wine and MATT, then I would be truly happy. Mmmm ... dammit, I'm still hungry. Thinking about Matt always makes me crave food. I suppose it's because I can't have the emotional satisfaction of having him near me, that I replace him with something sweet. Something I like to imagine his skin would taste like as I nibble on it.  
  
Shit! I really have to find something to eat!  
  
Luckily for me, I know that I stashed a big ol' Hersheys bar in my bag and that's exactly what I need. Something dark and delicious, like my lovely Matt. People call him the Dark Hardy because of his hair and his eyes and his clothing. He's like a chocolate bar, dark and sweet. And I'd just love to take a big bite outta him! I wonder what he'd say if he knew I was thinking these things. That every time I look at him, I imagine him naked in my bed, with me beside him, running my fingers through his hair, over his skin. My lips touching his ... licking ... nibbling ... sucking---  
  
Ah! Can't go down that train of thought at the moment. I'm not exactly alone in this hotel room. Jason is sitting on the bed talking lovey-dovey to his latest squeeze on the phone. And you think I'm bad, you should hear Jase talk about his Flavour of the Week. It's 'Oh, Hunter this' and 'Hunter that'. I try to tell him that no one cares how many different shades of golde are in Helmsley's hair, but he never listens to me. At least I keep my pyschotic Matt Hardy/chocolate bar ravings to myself.  
  
I have just discovered that Jay's ordered room service. The smell of fried chicked is pretty intoxicating and suddenly it dawns on me that Matt could be likened to fried chicken, too. He's hearty and filling. He tastes great hot or cold and I'd like to pick at him with my fingers.  
  
Jason's not sharing, damn him! He said he only ordered enough for one and tells me to get my own. I tell him he's an ass but he just waves a drumstick at me and takes a big bite. Matt would never be so mean. He would share his chicken. I'm sure of it.  
  
Now I'm craving chicken. Maybe I'll just run out to KFC's and grab myself a bucket. Who knows, I might bump into Matt. Then I can show him how great I am by sharing MY chicken, kind of like the old nature programs I used to watch where the suitor would try and impress the potential mate by showering her with food and stuff, to show how good of a provider he was. Matt would realize that I could always provide him fried chicken, then we could live happily ever after.  
  
Or not. Somehow I don't think it would happen that easily. But we could at least sit down and share a bucket of chicken.  
  
One day I'm going to work up the guts to tell him how I feel. Jason keeps telling me I should go for it, but that's easy for him to say. He's never had to go up to someone and profess a crush. Oh no, not Jase. He's always the one being approached, never the one doing the approaching. Lucky bastard.  
  
Matthew! Why can't you read minds! Why can't you look inside my head and realize that you are eating up my thoughts! You're all I ever think about! Your eyes, your hair, your lips, your cheekbones, your chin, the way you smell SO good even when you're all sweaty from a match and your dark locks are matted to your forehead. Whenever I see you like that, I just wish I could walk up, smooth your hair away and kiss you. I want to see if you do taste like chocolate, or Twinkies. Or maybe, even, fried chicken! 


End file.
